


Misadventures of the Tennis Royals

by PrincessSmuttButt



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: College, Comedy, FWB, Fluff and Angst, Japan, Long-Distance Relationship, Multi, Romance, Roommates, Sex, Tennis, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6935215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSmuttButt/pseuds/PrincessSmuttButt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories that follow their adventures--they're going to college, traveling the world, finding romance and jobs. Now that it's been a few years since their middle school days, their relationships have blossomed and their skills have grown; of course, that doesn't mean their antics have ended. They find themselves wrapped up in complicated long-term and long-distance relationships, build friendships with unlikely new teammates while saying goodbye to the teammates they had before, and make their way through the complex and beautiful world around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sushi Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for clicking on this story. You're really sexy. 
> 
> so yeah this is just a big clusterfuck of prince of tennis stories that involve pretty much every character--will also take requests because most of them (most) are oneshots anyway. it takes place when the third years are in their second year of college because i really can't believe that they are in middle school come on
> 
> (please read this i put in A LOT OF TIME AND EFFORT it is very detailed i know where they live and what their hobbies are and who they're fucking. I know the abbreviations for all the big Japanese universities and shit I did my research I HAVE AN EXCEL SHEET FOR THIS this drained my soul)
> 
> Have a character in mind? 
> 
> I have probably written something about them because they are all my children and I love them all. Also this fandom is so underrated and I feel that it has given me so much...I must give back to the community of like-minded nutters who have fallen deep (and i mean DEEP) into this fandom because there is really no other way to be a prince of tennis fan. ya feel?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

**Ryoma**

**#SushiNight**

 

            A young man wearing a white hat and a sleeveless t-shirt walked through the streets, a tennis bag hanging over his shoulder. He seemed to know where he was going, his hazel eyes not really focused on anything in particular. But his steps were deliberate, left and right, with one hand in his pocket and the other grasping the strap of his tennis bag. He wasn’t especially tall, but not especially short, either—seemed in transition, like in a few months, he might shoot up like a bamboo stalk. He was skinny and, at first glance, might have seemed lanky. But at closer inspection, one could see his lean muscles rippling, creating bends and shadows across his pale skin. They covered his body, a testament to the health and fitness of this young man. Perhaps 17 or 18, not much older or younger than that. Straight, shiny, dark tendrils of hair spilled from beneath his cap and fell between his eyes and across his forehead. It was messy, but deliberately messy. Surely he had stood in front of the mirror and decided how messy he wanted it to look. As he walked, he glanced up at the sky for a moment and murmured under his breath, “Geez, it’s hot.”

            He stopped in front of a sushi restaurant—one that had been steadily gaining fame in Tokyo for the past four years. It was called Kawamura Sushi. It was full that time of day, but the young man walked in without even blinking. He looked around the restaurant for a few moments, but before he could find what he was evidently searching for, there came a bellowing scream in his direction.

            “Echizen!” Suddenly there was a huge, muscular bicep wrapped around his neck, forcing his face into a just-as-muscular chest. The young man scowled and tried to resist, all the while knowing it was futile. “Late, as usual!”

            The one who had grabbed him finally let go, and the young man looked up. And then, his straight lips broke into a smile as he fixed his hat.

            “Long time no see, Momo.”

            The one who had grabbed him was a little bit older than him, it seemed, with muscles and a strong build much more evident than his. He stood abnormally straight (but even if he were slouching he would be much taller) and smiled as if he wanted the entire world to see how bright his teeth were, with black hair gelled to a perfect style that hadn’t changed in years. Violet eyes that were wide and vibrant, a voice that reached every corner of the restaurant. It was Takeshi Momoshiro, Ryoma’s best friend.

            “Is that any way to greet me?” Takeshi laughed. He lifted his fist wordlessly, and Ryoma met it with his own. Ryoma was much more at ease now. Not that he hadn’t been at ease before—but now he knew he was with friends. He could relax the muscles of his face and let himself smile a little bit. Takeshi began talking—about what, Ryoma wasn’t really sure—as he took him by the elbow and began leading him through the restaurant. Toward the back, at a larger table that was completely filled with familiar faces.

            “Look who I found!” Takeshi said, giving Ryoma a light push. Everybody at the table smiled.

            “Echizen! Welcome home. Did you have a good trip?” A young man with deep green eyes smiled his signature genuine smile, the kind of smile that made somebody feel like the most cared about person in the world. It was Shuichiro Oishi, who had shockingly grown his hair out in the past few years.

            “Ochibi! We were just about to order—glad you made it!” Sitting right beside Shuichiro was Eiji Kikumaru, his bright red hair shimmering and his blue eyes sparkling in what seemed to be sincere excitement. He jumped up from the table, leaped across it, grabbed Ryoma’s hat, and tousled his hair before Ryoma could even blink.            

            “Eiji, be careful! You’re going to spill the soy sauce,” Shuichiro called.

            “It’s about time,” came a deep, low voice from further down the table. It came from a young man sitting with his arms crossed, his lips pursed, and a body much more built than any of the others. His hair was black and wiry, sticking out from beneath a blue bandana wrapped around his head. He was Kaoru Kaidoh, or as some called him (usually Takeshi), Viper. The nickname had arisen in middle school, and had somehow stuck until now. Though he had long grown out of his habit of hissing like a snake.

            “Yo, Echizen! Long time no see!” Sitting beside Kaoru were two people, arms around each other in friendly affection, that Ryoma really hadn’t seen in a while. One with glistening red hair falling over one eye, one with shoulder-length blue hair—Akira Kamio and Shinji Ibu. Akira was waving, a smile on his face, while Shinji grinned silently and swayed with Akira’s rhythm. Students of a different high school than the one the others had attended, but friends, nevertheless. Ryoma raised a hand in greeting. There were two more people at the table he recognized—one with tall stature, straight posture, thin eyebrows, glasses that shined so brightly they shielded his eyes, unexpectedly strong physique. He sat across from Kaoru. He smiled a small, crooked smile.

            “Welcome back. I would ask how you are, but I already know. Of course I’ve been keeping tabs,” Sadaharu Inui said, fixing his glasses. His comments washed over Ryoma like he had a plastic wrapping around his body. Finally, there was the young man sitting across from Eiji, sunglasses on top of his head even though it wasn’t even sunny out, tresses that fell to his shoulders and a smile that was nice and genuine and yet, in some inexplicable way, very unnerving.

            “Have a seat, Echizen. How do you like being back?” Syuusuke Fuji asked. Ryoma (always a bit afraid of disobeying Syuusuke) let his tennis bag fall to the floor and knelt beside him, across from Shuichiro, adjusting his hat even though it didn’t need any adjusting. He gave a shrug. Takeshi slapped his back once before making his way around the table and squeezing in between Akira and Kaoru.

            “I’ve only been back a few hours. Came here straight from the airport,” he said. “But it’s hot, as usual.”

            “Well, we’re all glad to have you back, even if it’s only for a little while,” Shuichiro smiled. “Tokyo seems a little bit brighter.”

            “You’re so _cheesy_ , Oishi,” Eiji mumbled, nudging Shuichiro with his shoulder. Shuichiro just smiled, tinkered with his chopsticks a little bit. While the conversations started up again, Ryoma looked around the table, let himself slouch in his seat. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in a while. The travelling and the training and the practices and the tournaments were certainly what he loved to do—what he wanted to do, what he was doing, what he was great at doing, what he _would_ do for as long as he could.

            But being surrounded by so many familiar faces in a familiar place, with familiar emotions rushing around his body, was comfortable. He smiled a little bit. Shuichiro and Eiji laughing about something that nobody else could relate to, Takeshi and Kaoru arguing about something or other, Akira singing a song and Shinji speaking to himself, Sadaharu informing Syuusuke of his most recent recipe—one that Syuusuke showed sincere interest in trying when the time came. And Ryoma sitting in silence, taking in the atmosphere, letting Shuichiro take care of ordering the sushi, happy that he was here.

            “Echizen-kun! It’s so nice to see you again.” A young man with round, excited eyes, light hair, a gentle way of walking and a soothing way of speaking, approached the table. He had trays of sushi in his hands, a familiar smile and familiar sideburns. With fluidity, he put the sushi along the table, wiped the sweat from his brow, reached out and grabbed Ryoma’s hand. He was the son of the restaurant’s owner, Takashi Kawamura, the one who was to take over the restaurant and had recently become a chef himself. Instead of heading back to the kitchen, he sat down at the head of the table. There was still something missing, of course. Something that gnawed at Ryoma’s core.

            “Hey, Fuji-senpai,” he said. “Where’s Tezuka?”

            “He’s at a tournament,” Syuusuke replied. “I thought you would have known.” Ryoma shrugged and turned away.

            “Man, if he were here, we’d have the whole gang!” Takeshi cried.

            “Pipe down, will ya?” Kaoru mumbled.

            “IS THIS QUIET ENOUGH FOR YOU?” Takeshi screamed in his ear.

            “I wonder how they’ll manage living together,” Syuusuke chuckled as Shuichiro hurried to tame the bubbling battle between the two. Ryoma laughed too, recalling the phone conversation he had had with Takeshi a few months ago.

* * *

 

            “Kyoto University? Wow, congratulations. That’s kind of a big deal.”

            “I know! My parents wanted me to stay close, but hey, the university is great.”

            “Anybody else we know going to Kyodai?”

            “Actually, yeah. Mamoshi got in, too. We’re rooming together.”

            “Wait, really?”

            “Yeah! Well, _actually_ , we’re rooming with Kamio and Ibu.”

            “Kamio and Ibu? Really?”

            “Mhmm. Crazy, isn’t it?”

            “Momo, that’s a terrible idea.”

* * *

 

            Suddenly Kaoru and Takeshi were laughing, nudging each other, competing to see who could eat the most pieces of sushi. Ryoma was certain they would be fine. Syuusuke seemed to think so as well, while he smiled and heaped wasabi on his sushi.

            “When do classes start?” he asked, to nobody in particular.

            “Oh shoot, I forget...Oishi?” Eiji pouted.

            “Two weeks. But we moved in last week.”

            “Moved in?”

            “A flat in Ochiai, yeah. Eiji, Shishido, Ootori and I are living together this year. We figured we’d get a place close by and just split the rent to make it easier, since they’re at Sodai, too.”

            “Oh yeah, you’re at Sodai. Nice to hear Ootori got in.”

            “That’s where Yuuta’s going, too,” Syuusuke added. Eiji leaned forward on the table, blinked a few times.

            “What? He’s not going to Todai with you?”

            Syuusuke shook his head, delicately ate some unaccompanied wasabi. “He got in, but he decided to go to Sodai. It’s still in Tokyo, so it’s okay. And Kojirou is there to look out for him.”

            “Is he living with you, Kite, and Saeki, then?” Sadaharu asked.

            “No, we asked him if he wanted to, but he was very vehemently against it,” Syuusuke said, as if he were talking about a mischievous child. “He’s going to live in the university housing.”

            “Like we did last year,” Shuichiro said. “He’ll be fine.”

            “What about you, Inui? When do you go back to Osaka?” Kaoru asked. Sadaharu adjusted his glasses, crossed his arms, looked at the ceiling as if there were something very fascinating up there. Something puzzling.

            “Three days.”

            “Soon,” Kaoru mumbled.

            “I’m rather excited. Their physics department is really something.” Sadaharu smiled at Kaoru across the table, popped a piece of unagi sushi into his mouth. “I’ll just be living in the university dorms again. I don’t mind them, and besides, the only thing I know how to make is fried rice and my special juices.”

            Everybody took a moment of silence to fondly remember their lost tastebuds, long ago stolen by Sadaharu’s infamous concoctions.

            “I can’t remember if you mentioned this before—anybody else you know at Handai?” Shuichiro asked. Sadaharu nodded.

            “Yes. Hiroshi Yagyuu and Hajime Mizuki. I don’t see either of them very much. Yagyuu is busy in student government, and I don’t care much for Mizuki to begin with.”

            Syuusuke laughed and said, “Yuuta and Mizuki are actually quite good friends. Oh, Kippei and Chitose are at Handai as well.”

            “Ah, yes. But I don’t see them, either,” Sadaharu said softly.

            “How long are you in Tokyo, Echizen?” Takashi asked. He leaned forward, hands on his knees. His voice rose up, smooth and fluid, above the rest. Ryoma wished he hadn’t asked that question, because he much preferred hearing about the others than talking about himself.

            “A few weeks. Until the start of April. Then I’m going on tour in Europe to prepare for the French Open.”

            “Oh, Roland Garros, huh?” Eiji said, putting his chin in his hands. “We’ll definitely be watching, ochibi. Even while we study our asses off.”

            The others nodded, and he felt another surge of happiness rush through him. To hide his childish elation, he lowered the tip of his cap and ate a piece of sushi. He hoped they couldn’t see his red cheeks, or hear his beating heart. But he figured after all these years, they knew him well enough to see exactly what he was feeling without having to read the expressions on his face. They fell back into their usual rhythms. Takashi and Syuusuke discussing the tastes of the sushi; Kaoru, Akaya, and Shinji trying to solve a riddle Sadaharu just posed to them (Hmm, I wonder, I’ve never heard of a riddle like this, but it sounds like it should be simple. Perhaps a trick question, perhaps something more simple, perhaps I’m overthinking this. Perhaps I’m not thinking about it enough), Takeshi eating as much sushi as he possible could, Eiji and Shuichiro still laughing about that inside joke nobody else understood.

            Ryoma wondered if he would ever go to university like they were. Perhaps one day he would sit for the University of Tokyo, like Syuusuke had—or Kyoto University, like Takeshi and Kaoru had—maybe even Waseda University, like Shuichiro and Eiji. Osaka University seemed too far for him, he mused. Which was a strange thing to muse, considering that he was constantly travelling.

            Or perhaps he would attend university in America. His English was fluent now and he knew people there and had become comfortable with its cities. Maybe a university in New York City or Boston or out west in California. Somewhere near Kevin, he thought. Although, Kevin was probably in the same boat as him—wondering how long life as a professional player could last. Ryoma tried to look into the horizon, but saw no end in sight.

            For now, he decided, he would continue travelling. Continue playing, continue meeting new friends and staying in contact with the old (his weekly phone calls with Takeshi and occasional Skype sessions with the others would have to suffice), crossing each bridge as he arrived to it. I’m only seventeen, he thought. I still have time to figure out my life.

            The door of the restaurant opened just then, and almost immediately, Ryoma smelled a familiar aroma of flowers and sugar fill his nostrils. Not an overwhelming aroma, not so sweet it made his head ring, but sweet enough that there could have been a freshly baked cake sitting right in front of him. It was no cake, though. The entire table looked up and saw a young girl, around Ryoma’s age, strolling in. She had brown hair that fell to her waist in broad, shimmering waves and was held back from her face with a headband, and her eyes were wide and welcoming and their sparkle could be seen even from across the room. When she smiled it made her entire face seem lighter, made everybody else tempted to smile, too. As she strolled over to their table, waving her delicate little hand, her light pink dress billowed and her slim waist swayed and Ryoma couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

            “Ryoma-kun! They told me you would be here,” she said, standing beside Takashi and looking down at him. He blinked a few times, could feel the others watching him like hawks. “It’s so nice to see you.”

            “R...Ryuzaki.”

            “I can’t believe you still call me that,” she giggled. The same, timid giggle that he’d grown so used to hearing, though it wasn’t so timid anymore. “Just call me Sakuno, would you? We’ve known each other long enough.”

            “Have a seat, Sakuno-chan,” Takashi said, making room. She knelt down at the corner of the table, between him and Ryoma. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and kept smiling that smile. He wondered when she had transformed from that shy, clumsy young girl into the person he saw in front of him—surely it had happened recently. Although now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t exactly remember when. He had spent so much time travelling that he just couldn’t pinpoint the moment the change had occurred. All he knew was that it had happened.

            “Congratulations on all of the wonderful things you’re doing,” she beamed. “You really are amazing.”

            He shrugged, and caught Eiji staring daggers from the corner of his eye. He turned away quickly and ate another piece of sushi. Sakuno laughed, as if she knew exactly what was going on and had decided to play along.

            “How’s your family doing? Are you still studying at all?” she asked. Without warning, she brought her hand up and touched his arm, like an old friend (which, now that Ryoma thought about it, she certainly was).

            “They’re fine,” he said. “Yeah, I’m still studying. It would get boring otherwise.”

            “That’s so like you,” she smiled. “Oh, I’m getting much better at English. I’ll have to practice with you sometime.”

            “Practice now!” Eiji offered. “Say something, Sakuno.”

            “Hmm, all right,” she agreed. She paused for a moment, playing with her hair in the exact same way she used to play with her braids when they were younger. She looked back at Ryoma with those big eyes and he felt his cheeks redden. “I’m so glad to see you again!” she said, in perfect English.

            Ryoma blinked and straightened up a bit.

            “Your accent is perfect,” he said, in Japanese.

            “In English, Echizen! Respond in English!” Takeshi screamed. He flinched, then cleared his throat.

            “Your English is really good,” he said, in English. And, though he hated to admit it, in an accent much heavier than Sakuno’s. She smiled and held his arm with both hands, gently.

            “ _Arigatou_ , Ryoma-kun _._ Oh, by the way, Grandma says she would love to see you before you leave for Europe again. Stop by and say hi, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            “Promise?”

            “All right, I promise.”

            She nodded and then stood up, her bag over her shoulder.

            “I have to get going, but I did want to stop by and say hello. So nice to see you again, Ryoma-kun. Maybe we can play tennis sometime before you leave? You have my phone number, so let me know. Enjoy your sushi, everyone.”

            “Bye, Ryuzaki.”

            “I’m serious, just call me Sakuno,” she laughed, waving as she walked out.

            “Look at his face, the little ladykiller,” Takeshi roared as soon as Sakuno was gone. The rest of the table burst into laughter, especially when Ryoma crossed his arms. “You’re as red as a beet!”

            “But hey, she was, too,” Eiji added. “Come on, ochibi, you’re so late to the party!”

            “Lay off, guys,” he mumbled. But even as they continued teasing him, continued stuffing their faces, continued talking about the future and the past and the present, Ryoma glanced at the door. He glanced at their faces, recalled Sakuno’s touch on his arm.

            And he was glad to be home.


	2. French Poetry

**#FrenchPoetry**             

            The sun was excruciatingly bright. And it seemed as if the world were smoldering. He put one hand to his forehead and looked up at the bright blue sky, drank in its color. Sometimes it was light, faded blue, sometimes a vibrant and blinding blue—today it was somewhere in the middle, a perfect shade of blue that didn’t make his eyes hurt. But the sunlight was still bright, so he squinted. There on his back, feeling his hat slipping off his head and onto the grass. He relaxed his muscles and let himself lie back, his clothes and his skin taking in the moisture of the grass. There was a slight breeze; it made the blades of grass tickle his cheeks. He was almost completely still. For a moment, he forgot everything. He forgot where he was, why he was there, what time of year it was, what day it was—he almost forgot his own name.

            “Still listening?” came that voice, reminding him of everything.

            “Yes. Keep going,” he replied. He was in Seiichi’s garden. It was spring time, a few weeks before his second year of university. And Seiichi...Seiichi was there, his head lying gently on Genichirou’s stomach, providing a pressure that he never wanted to go away. And, with that one hand still on his forehead, Genichirou’s other hand was twirling a lock of Seiichi’s hair. Listening while Seiichi read him French poetry. In French first. Then he would translate it to Japanese so that Genichirou could get the language and the meaning all at once. Genichirou wasn’t particularly fond of poetry (especially French poetry) but he loved, more than anything, hearing Seiichi’s voice, reading to him as he lay so gently against him.

            “What did you say this author’s name was?” he asked. He didn’t care for the answer, but he wanted to hear Seiichi say it.

            “Charles Baudelaire.”

            “That’s it.”

            “Do you like it?”

            “Hmm.”

            Seiichi chuckled softly, undoubtedly knowing that Genichirou wasn’t much of a bibliophile, but kept reading. He knew Genichirou perhaps better than he knew himself—and he knew how much he loved listening to him read. Even if he understood absolutely nothing. As the sound of his voice, quiet and smooth and not nearly as deep as Genichirou’s, continued, Genichirou felt it seeping into his body. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun and the feel of the grass, Seiichi’s hair in his fingers, his voice floating in and out of his ears, the r’s sounding so strange rolling off Seiichi’s tongue. The most incredible sensation was, by far, simply being so close to him. They had been this way for four years now, and the sensation was still overwhelming to him. Even now.

            “I love you, my madcap, my ineffable passion, with the pious devotion of a priest for his idol,” Seiichi read. First in French, then in Japanese. Genichirou opened his eyes and smiled, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly.

            “What’s this one called?”

            “Chanson D’Apres Midi,” Seiichi replied. “Afternoon Song.”

            “It’s not even about the afternoon.”

            “That’s what’s nice about poetry,” Seiichi sighed. He put the book down flat on his chest and reached back, until his fingers had grabbed Genichirou’s and were stroking his tingling skin. “It can be about whatever you want it to be. It’s all about interpretation.”

            “It sounds pretty explicit to me.”

            “To you, Genichirou.” Seiichi pulled Genichirou’s hand toward his lips and kissed it lightly. Just as lightly as the grass kissed his cheeks. He took the opportunity to glance down at Seiichi, his hat falling completely off as he did. He had his lips still pressed to Genichirou’s hands, his eyes closed, face upturned to the sky with the open book on his chest. _“Je t’adore, o ma frivole, ma terrible passion,”_ he murmured. Without looking at the book. Then, silently, he sat up, still grasping Genichirou’s fingers. He turned to face him.

            _“Tu me déchires, ma brune,”_ he continued, _“avec un rire moqueur.”_

            Genichirou didn’t say anything, but he saw something strange in Seiichi’s eyes. He pushed himself until he, too, was sitting up, his face breathtakingly close to Seiichi’s.

            “You tear me open, my dark beauty,” he translated. His voice had dropped to a soft murmur, his eyes intently watching Genichirou’s lips. Genichirou lifted his hand and held Seiichi’s face, stroked the smooth, pale skin of his cheek. “With derisive laughter.”

            He leaned forward and kissed him. His lips pressed up against Seiichi’s slightly parted ones, but he tasted something unusual. Something strangely unfamiliar. He pulled away and saw that Seiichi had closed his eyes...perhaps to hide the sadness that Genichirou could nevertheless see in every other feature of his face.

            “What’s wrong, Seiichi?” he asked. Instead of responding, Seiichi squeezed his hand more tightly. “Look at me and tell me what’s wrong.”

            Seiichi opened his eyes and looked into Genichirou’s. He was smiling now, a small, sorrowful smile.

            _“Tu me déchires, ma brune,”_ he said again. _You tear me open, my dark beauty._ “I’m leaving for Kyoto in a few weeks.”

            “I know.”

            “And you’re staying here.”

            “Just like this past year.”

            “It was difficult, wasn’t it? Being far from each other for so long?” he said.

            “No, not really.”

            “Genichirou.” Seiichi’s smile faded. “Don’t lie.”

            “I’m not lying.”

            “Well if it wasn’t hard last year, it’s going to be this year.”

            “Are you afraid?” Genichirou said. He didn’t like this conversation, and he wanted it to end as quickly as possible. Seiichi’s face remained as still and as stoic as stone.

            “Afraid of what?”

            “Afraid of it being hard. The distance. Are you afraid?”

            Seiichi paused. It was a very deliberate silence. He had let go of Genichirou’s hand, but their faces were still close. Their lips nearly brushed. They could taste each other’s breath.

            “I’m not afraid of it being hard,” he finally said. “I just accept that it will be.”

            “That’s a bullshit thing to accept and you know it.” Genichirou was angry now. No, not angry. Frustrated with the fact that Seiichi had sprung this subject on him so suddenly, and he knew exactly where it was going. “Like hell it will be hard.”

            “What, you think it will be easy?” Seiichi asked. The only way his face betrayed his emotions was with a slight raise of his eyebrows. He had always been good with masking things. Although, up until that moment, Genichirou had believed that he could read him rather well. “With the distance? Us both being busy? You think maintaining this with phone calls and letters and distant ‘I love you’s’ will be easy? You’re fooling yourself, Genichirou.”

            “You’re the one fooling yourself. How long have you been telling yourself this? Convincing yourself that it’ll be hard? Have you been planning this all spring?”

            “Calm down. You’re getting angry again.”

            “Because you’re talking nonsense,” Genichirou said through clenched teeth.

            “Genichirou.” Seiichi knew exactly what to do when Genichirou got worked up like this. He would look straight into his eyes, maintain his hard comportment, but say his name. Gently, in a way that seemed to fall over him and melt even his most passionate emotions. “Genichirou, calm down. It’s not nonsense.”

            Genichirou wasn’t sure how to respond. He blinked and looked away, at some suddenly interesting spot in the grass. He didn’t want to see Seiichi looking at him like that anymore. He didn’t even want to hear Seiichi’s voice anymore. It was making him unbelievably frustrated and disappointed and distressed.

            “Listen to me. Maybe it’s better if we stop this for now.”

            “This? _This?_ ” Seiichi’s voice was no longer enough to quell his anger. He stood up and clenched his fists and stared down at him. Struggled to speak over the lump in his throat. “By ‘this,’ do you honestly mean our four-year relationship? Is it so meaningless to you?”

            “I never said that.” Of course, Seiichi was reasonable. Seiichi was calm.

            And it made Genichirou even angrier.

            “You think we should just ‘stop it for now,’ as if we can start it and stop it whenever we want. Like a fucking magazine subscription. Is it _so_ meaningless to you?”

            Seiichi stood up silently, his arms at his sides, holding the book of French poems in one hand. Genichirou wished that, for once, Seiichi would scream back at him. Would fight with him, argue with him, rather than stare at him like a statue and try to calm his nerves.

            “How would stopping ‘this’ help anything?” Genichirou spat in disbelief.

            “Let me ask you something. How many nights did you stay at home to talk to me instead of going out with your friends?” Seiichi asked. Genichirou blinked, straightened up.

            “What kind of question is that?”

            “Answer it. How many nights a week did you stay at home talking to me on the phone?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Yes you do.”

            “Four or five.”

            “How many breaks, which you could have spent travelling or relaxing, did you spend in Kyoto visiting me?”

            “Every one.”

            “How many parties did you skip because I wasn’t there with you? Because you didn’t trust yourself?”

            “I trust myself—”

            “Answer me, Genichirou.”

            “I...” His voice trailed off as the weight of the moment pressed down against him. He stared down at his feet and waited for the anger to come back, to swell up again. But it had already subsided. “I did all of that by choice.”

            “I know you did.”

            “Seiichi. Was it hard for you?” As Genichirou asked the question, he realized that Seiichi had never directly said the answer. He had been speaking this entire time in terms of Genichirou’s emotions. He looked unwaveringly into Seiichi’s eyes. “Do you feel restricted by this?”

            Seiichi looked up at the sky and held the book against his chest. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, stood like an angel. When he looked back down the stony expression had faded away, and his sad smile had returned.

            “Smothered by the distance,” he said. “Smothered...”

            “By me.”

            “No.” He shook his head. “No, no. Not by you.”

            “Then I don’t understand.”

            Seiichi bent down, placed the book on the ground, took a step forward, reached up, put his hands on either side of Genichirou’s head, and brought Genichirou’s forehead down against his chest. As a mother might do for her hurt, sobbing child. And Genichirou could do nothing but let him.

            “I love you,” Seiichi murmured against his head. “I still love you.”

            “Then why?”

            “I think it’s better this way.”

            “I don’t.”

            Seiichi held him more tightly and Genichirou could have sworn he felt Seiichi’s tears mingling with his dark hair. Then he murmured, _“Tu me déchires, ma brune.”_

            “If this is what you want, okay.” Genichirou lifted his head and saw that, indeed, there were silent tears streaming down Seiichi’s cheeks. “But don’t try to convince me that this is what I want.”

            “All right. I won’t.”

            “Are you lying when you say you love me?” Genichirou asked the question without meaning to. But he wanted so badly to hear Seiichi say no.

            “No, of course not. I love you, Genichirou. But I think that for now, with the distance and our studies, we should stop.”

            “If that’s what you want, Seiichi.” Genichirou bent down and picked up his cap, then put it on. “Fine. We’ll stop this.”

            As he turned to leave, he turned Seiichi murmuring, _“Je t’adore, o ma frivole. O ma brune.”_

            I love you, my madcap. My dark beauty.

**Author's Note:**

> who would you like to see next? 
> 
> got some Yukimura/Sanada  
> some Kaidou + Inui   
> some Hyotei fluff
> 
> gimme a shout yo   
> i got the goods


End file.
